Picture this.
It's Monday, August 22nd. We wake up, still in an embrace from the night before. The AQI-4 air blows steadily through the open window of our solarpunk dirigible.
The robot brings us coffee as usual, callibrated to steadily modulate the taste and texture of the drink into a gustatory Shepherd tone of seemingly every-increasing quality: just one more confident step along the hedonistic treadmill which still defines humanity.
"Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto" I say, and snicker to myself, as I've done a thousand times before. You groan and play-swat me with a pillow, but you smile, not because of the joke but because of how it never fails to amuse me and that, in turn, never fails to amuse you.
"Tomorrow is my sister's birthday, and I'd like to get her something special", I say. "But she already has everything she wants, just like us and everyone else except for the people who decided they'd be most fulfilled by unsubscribing from our post-scarcity economy", you respond.
"Well, we'll have to go with something hand-made then."
We jump out of the Zeppelin in our flying squirrel suits and do loop-de-loops to Berkeley Bowl's landing pad. Along the way, we see eight bird species which are completely friendly to humans and unafraid since humans haven't harmed them or any other animal in generations. Some of the species were extinct before we were born. You point out one of the new flying penguins: "Glad we could help those guys finally make it", I say.
The main Berkeley Bowl floor is filled with a giant line, part of a performance-art piece, but we duck into the Parisian patisserie hidden behind a shelf of Jovian imports.
As we eat, we read books and ocassionally quote passages to each other, or catch each other up on major plot developments.
Afterwards, we plot a course to the birthday party and spend the rest of the afternoon in fully-immersive virtual reality, collaboratively programming a retro videogame for my sister, filled with private-jokes and notalgic references to her childhood. With the creative-juices flowing, we get a little silly and jokingly build a sexual fantasy for ourselves which starts out as a joke and devolves into sexy sex.
We get to the party just in time, good thing we never need to shower because our sweat smells to everyone like the smell of yellowed paperback books. Everybody is there and it's the best party.
As we climb back into bed, we think about birthdays and birth and how people used to think in terms of yin and yang, yet now we have birth without death and rather than losing what made us human, we lost a lot of things that made us miserable.
Written in response to an online dating profile which had written the following for the prompt "A Perfect Day":
A perfect day
Picture this.
It’s a Sunday, say August 21st. We wake up naturally with the sun and breathe in spectacular, AQI-4 air through a fully open window. But we don’t even notice, because that’s normal since humankind became carbon neutral.
A robot brings us coffee exactly how we like it. I ask you what’s on your mind, and you share your thoughts on how your relationship with your mother has changed in complex and mostly good ways as you both age. You hug me and thank me for listening.
“Hey, Love of my Life,” I say. “Shall we go visit our friends in Fully Automated Luxury Gay Space Communism today?”
“Ah, I don’t know. I don’t really feel like being in the spaceship for a long time today. I’d rather be outside.”
“Totally. Let’s enjoy the beautiful planet we still have because Greta became the youngest ever secretary-general of the United Nations.”
I go for a long run through the beautiful California redwoods. When I get back, I see you’ve already been to Berkeley Bowl, where they have completely solved lines. You’ve found the most beautiful fucking oyster mushrooms I’ve ever seen.
We make a very umami brunch together and eat while Zoom calling our friends in space. Except we don’t use Zoom, we use an end-to-end encrypted conferencing tool that is supported by public technology infrastructure. And it makes it feel like you’re all really in the same place.
After brunch I finish a book that gives me new insight into what makes life worth living. I tell you about it while rubbing your shoulders, which are extremely relaxed anyway because all statistically effective therapeutic practices such as talk therapy and massage are covered by universal health care.
“Wow,” you say, “That’s a beautiful way of looking at it. I feel so alive right now.” We’re both turned on and we have sexy sex.
In the evening we make an elaborate, healthy meal that includes fresh mozzarella. The cheese comes from a cow that will be lovingly cared for until it dies a natural death. Or it is concocted by a laboratory, but it tastes just as good.
Before we go to sleep, we talk about what we hope to accomplish in the week ahead. We’re both excited about our jobs that we do because they are important and satisfying, and not because we need money, because all we spend our Universal Basic Income on is Berkeley Bowl and supporting local musicians and artists.
We sleep very well, getting 8 hours of 30% REM sleep.